


Agathokakological

by Gaysoundsaboutright



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:42:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28422639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaysoundsaboutright/pseuds/Gaysoundsaboutright
Summary: Good Omens angst that no asked for. Enjoy!!Warnings: implied torture, injuries, blood, mention of substance abuse
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley has a habit of showing up out of the blue, a certain way of tracking down Aziraphale and seeking him out at the most unexpected of times. 

This time, for example. 

"Oh Crowley." Aziraphale fusses, quickly ushering the bedraggled demon inside and very pointedly casting a small miracle to convince the gawking crowd that they hadn't seen anything. "Crowley what  _ are _ you doing here?? With your wings out! In broad daylight!! Crowley--" 

"Sorry." 

Aziraphale freezes, not sure if he heard that right. Demons don't apologise! But then here is Crowley, bruises blooming all over his skin, sunglasses cracked, normally pristine feathers tangled and coated in blood, dead on his feet and--

"I'm sorry." The demon whispers, leaning heavily on him for support. "I'm sorry. Please just--" Aziraphale's eyes widen, catching tears. Without thinking, Aziraphale turns fully to face him, reaching up and gently brushing them away. "L-let me stay." The demon half begs. "Please angel."

Demons don't apologise. Or say please. Or cry. Or beg. Or show weakness. 

"Of course dear." Aziraphale is saying before he can stop himself, laying a gentle hand on Crowley's back and guiding him inside. The demon is trembling violently. As Aziraphale watches, a single tear flows down Crowley's face, before he hastily wipes it away, dipping his head and rasping out his thanks through bloody coughs. 

Demons don't say thank you either. 

"If you are amicable, might you tell me what has happened to you, my dear?" Aziraphale suggests, brushing a hand over the demon's injuries to try to heal them, frowning when the magic slides right off. 

Crowley whimpers (Demons do not whimper), looking away and not responding. Well, Aziraphale already has his answer anyway. No normal injuries would resist angelic healing. 

"That's alright dear." Aziraphale reassures him, going to the kitchen to get a washcloth and basin of water. "That's alright. Here, sit down. Try to rest."

"Thank you, angel." Crowley whispers. "Thank you so much."

"Not a problem dear." Aziraphale smiles softly, suddenly hit with the strangest urge to card a hand through Crowley's hair, drawing another quiet, broken whimper from the poor demon. "It's okay Crowley. You're safe here, I promise."

At Aziraphale's assurances, Crowley goes limp, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, the demon sinking into Aziraphale's arms and promptly passing out. 

Time wears sharp points smooth, removing ragged edges. Time brings bad times, yes, but good times as well. Time heals, soothing cuts and wounds. 

Not for poor Crowley though. No, instead, time has worn away at Crowley, as a river cuts at rock, hollowing him out. Time has washed away the bad times, and promptly brought along even worse times. For the demon, time has only aggravated old wounds and opened new ones. 

Aziraphale smiles sadly, tracing the space where Crowley's sharp cheekbones give to gaunt cheeks and bruised skin. In his sleep, the demon twists and turns, face contorting with something that looks awfully like fear. 

There are no visible bloodstains, of course, for Crowley's wings and clothes are all black, but Aziraphale can see it anyway, in the rips in the demon's clothes, and the way Aziraphale's hands come away sanguine.

Taking the washcloth, Aziraphale slowly and methodically begins to clean away the blood and grime, smoothing out Crowley's ruffled feathers. The wounds are shallow, but very notably not closing. Under his touch, the demon twitches and shudders, whimpering pitifully, no matter how gentle Aziraphale tries to be. 

In a day or a month Crowley will wake, and the demon will try to pretend none of this happened, and for the sake of not making him uncomfortable, Aziraphale will play along. And, somehow, Aziraphale will mess up anyway, and then Crowley will leave, off to find somewhere to get drunk and/or sleep for a few years. 

And Aziraphale won't see him for at least a decade, after this. But a blip in their immortal lives, yet terribly long all the same. So… Aziraphale swallows, pulling the demon closer to his chest.

So then Aziraphale had best make the most of this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aka angst pt 2
> 
> Tw: mentions of injury, implied abuse, implied alcohol abuse

"Crowley?" Comes Aziraphale's soft, hurt, voice. "Were you just going to leave? Without even saying goodbye?" 

Crowley curses, just in his head, of course. Dang that angel. Dang that sweet, loving angel. That angel who really shouldn't care about Crowley and who Crowley should really stop crawling back to after being minorly inconvenienced. 

It's been just over a month, and the bruises have finally faded, the cuts closing into scabs, so Crowley should really be leaving now. Though, it's not like he should have come here in the first place. It wasn't like he was bleeding out or unable to walk or anything. No, Hell wanted him to remember the punishment, but they still wanted him on the field. Really, it's not like there was any  _ actual _ reason for him to burden Aziraphale so. 

Realising the angel is still standing there, waiting for an answer, Crowley tries to put on what he hopes is a nonchalant smile. 

"Places to go, angel." He shrugs, ignoring a certain, angry twinge in his left shoulder that the movement elicits. "Places to go, people to meet, souls to tempt to eternal damnation. You know the drill."

"Crowley…" Aziraphale murmurs reaching towards him and damnit not  _ that _ tone, that soft, understanding tone. "Oh Crowley."

Crowley forces back the urge to whimper, to turn tail and just run, to launch himself into the angel's warm arms and stay there forever. Instead, he carefully puts on his spare sunglasses, using the dark lenses to hide the fact that he can't quite seem to meet the angel's gaze. 

"Crowley, why don't you sit down?" Aziraphale suggests, and Crowley can't bring himself to resist when the angel lays a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder (the uninjured one), guiding him over to the couch. "Yes, there we are, dear. I'll make us some tea, alright?" 

A pathetic, broken noise escapes from Crowley before the demon can stop it, and Aziraphale gives him a sad smile, walking off to the kitchen. 

The angel's giving him an out, if Crowley really wants it. There's no reason Aziraphale can't just miracle up a pot, except that it gives Crowley the chance to leave, if he's truly uncomfortable. Well, not like Crowley's going to take it anyway. No, Crowley sits there and waits for Aziraphale to return, patient and obedient in a way that is really rather unbecoming for a demon. 

But Aziraphale is gentle with him. His words are kind, his smiles soft, his hugs warm… 

And before he knows it, he's pressed firmly against the angel's side, on the third or fourth season of some show. Which one, Crowley doesn't know or care, too busy soaking up as much of the angels affection-- No, don't call it affection, don't open that can of worms -- As much of the angel's general angelness as he possibly can. 

(It's like bathing in  _ Her _ love again, except maybe even better) 

(Of course, Crowley knows now that She's a bit of a bitch and besides that he'll never have Her love again anyway, but he can't help but miss it, sometimes) 

(Although really, maybe that's what makes Aziraphale's angelness even better. That the angel isn't a bitch (a bit of a bastard maybe) and that, though Crowley knows the angel's love still isn't something he can have, it feels closer somehow, in the way that Aziraphale seems to love  _ everything _ on this Earth, and technically,  _ Crowley _ is on this Earth, so maybe, just  _ maybe _ , he can have a little of that love too.) 

(Leeching off the angel's love like a parasite) 

(Like a lost puppy, starving for attention and affection) 

(Like a moth to a flame, knowing full well it'll destroy him, and running headfirst to it anyway)

(And also Aziraphale actually  _ talks _ to him, unlike Her, so maybe that's what makes the angel's angelness even better than the Almighty's)

It is at this point that Crowley realises the angel is still awake. And has been watching Crowley watch him, probably with some stupid expression on his face, no less, for the past thirty minutes. Crowley automatically jerka back, almost instinctively miracling his sunglasses back on, and he's just about to untangle himself from Aziraphale when the angel reaches out--

And grabs him by the wrist. And gives him a look that looks far too much like genuine concern, like pity. And gives him a gentle sort of tug, back to the angel's embrace, back to safety, back to warmth, back to where Crowley's thoughts and memories and emotions are gentler with him. And asks in that soft, sympathetic voice that he wait, just a moment dear, it's quite alright--

"It's not!!" Crowley snaps before he can stop himself, a part of him immediately feeling guilty, except demons aren't  _ supposed _ to feel guilt. "It's not alright!!!" 

(Expect demons also aren't supposed to be madly, wholeheartedly and sappily in love with angels) 

"Crowley…" Aziraphale speaks gently. "Dearest--" 

Crowley makes a strangled, pathetic noise at the endearment, although he knows by now that it means nothing, the angel doesn't love him that way, that's just how Aziraphale speaks, his voice always filled with love, with kindness, with understanding--

"Don't." Crowley finally chokes out, roughly yanking his hand from Aziraphale's grip. "Don't be cruel, angel."

"Crowley--" 

Crowley closes his eyes and concentrates as best as he can, trying to pick a destination before finally giving up on that and deciding on  _ anywhere _ , anywhere but  _ here! _

__ (but also preferably somewhere he can get very  _ very _ drunk, and then sleep for a couple years)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a chat with god.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, counts to ten, and then walks away from the faint smell of sulphur lingering in the air, going to the kitchen and making himself another cup of tea. 

Well, that went down like a lead balloon, he thinks wryly to himself, which is to say, really, about as well as one would  _ expect _ it to go down. As you can't change the density of lead, in the same way they can't change that they are an angel and a demon, knowing that they both have emotional baggage, knowing that their respective sides will  _ not _ be happy if they ever find out. And yet, you have turned the lead into a balloon, just as they were so ridiculously stupid to let a tentative friendship blossom with time's passage, a friendship that's constantly toeing the line of something  _ more _ , except that they can't admit out loud that they're even friends at all. 

Aziraphale smiles sadly, shaking his head. Doomed from the start, he knows. Aziraphale tilts his head skywards, though he can only see the ceiling, silently wondering if She is watching. Surely She knows? Surely She would have said something, done something, smote them both, if it was really wrong? But well, try telling that to Gabriel and the other angels… Yet, how many millennia has it been already? Surely… surely… 

Of course, there  _ is _ that Aziraphale can never seem to get an answer from Her… He's not  _ Fallen _ though! He isn't!! She's just not… Responding. But well-- 

Well, She  _ did _ talk to him once after he talked with Crowley! And it wasn't even about that! It was just about the sword!! Surely She would have said something if it was wrong!! 

(Lying to Her face about the sword, there's  _ no way _ She didn't know, maybe it was a test of loyalty, and he has very clearly failed!) 

Raising the cup to his lips, Aziraphale takes a careful, pointed sip of tea before setting it down again. 

He wonders where Crowley went to. Somewhere, far away from Aziraphale, surely? But maybe… if he's close… 

No. That'd be rude. Crowley wants to be alone, and Aziraphale should respect that, of course. 

Of course. Absolutely! Crowley needs his space, Aziraphale knows and respects that. Sometimes, which is to say often, Aziraphale wants his own space too. He just wishes that their meetings could last for a little longer, that they could stop leaving on such bad notes, that the alone time didn't last for decades, that he could know where the demon goes and that he's safe, that they could talk about it after instead of pretending it never happened, that Crowley could trust him enough to confide in him… 

Aziraphale swallows, taking another sip from his cup. 

Crowley has never told him why he Fell. Looking at the demon, at how he has a soft spot for children, how he has never  _ actually _ killed anyone, how the demon is really more mischievous than malicious, how he always gives his tempetees a  _ choice _ , how he often seems more than a little reluctant to carry out Hell's assignments… 

Well, Aziraphale wonders, is all, why exactly Crowley  _ is _ a demon. Of course,  _ Aziraphale _ is an angel, so he really shouldn't be wondering, should he? Aziraphale looks skywards again, considering the ceiling. 

"Will  _ I _ Fall? If I keep asking questions?" He asks out loud. 

Silence, of course. Aziraphale promptly decides never to try that again for any reason. 

"Right." He nods to himself, if only to fill the silence, just slightly. He raises his teacup to his lips and takes another sip. 

Somewhere, a pigeon decides it's a good time to make a racket, yelling something about apples being delicious. Aziraphale tries not to be too irritated. Being able to understand all of Her creations isn't nearly as fun as most humans imagine. 

(Somewhere Else, the Almighty frowns, realising She should probably have picked a different animal. One whose language actually has words for things that aren't food, good, bad, scatter and revenge. Well, nevermind, surely Aziraphale of all angels will understand.) 

"... Okay, but will I?" Aziraphale asks after a long moment. "Fall, I mean."

The pigeon continues to scream about its apples. 

"I mean, I have no intention of testing it, of course, but will I?" 

The pigeon loudly declares that apples are not bad at all, actually. 

"Oh wait, I'm asking questions  _ now _ , aren't I?" Aziraphale frowns, pursing his lips. "Oh dear."

The pigeon shouts that it will not have revenge on its child for stealing its apples. 

"Well." Aziraphale decides, setting down his book. "Well, it can't be that bad, right? I mean, you didn't smite me for asking those questions just now, so…"

Another silence. Minus the pigeon repeating over and over again that apples are not bad, not bad at all. 

"... Right. Thanks. Lovely talk."

(Somewhere Else, the Almighty nods proudly to Herself. All in a day's work.)

(The Almighty, despite what the Christians might claim, does not actually use Her powers to be a creep and look into Her creations minds, thank you very much) 

(This is a very good thing) 

(Well, generally) 


End file.
